“I’ll take that as a compliment. Now get going, will you?”

And so I took off in Julian’s Rover, which splashed through the muddy ruts in the dirt road leading to the spa. When the rain intensified, I was blinded by it, and when I failed to find the windshield wipers, I pulled over. Once I located the interior lights, I managed to turn on the wipers. But still, I sat.

I didn’t want to go home, even though every muscle in my back and legs, and my swollen cheek, said that was exactly what I should do. I felt helpless and hopeless. I hated not having any information on how Jack was doing. I told myself I would call the hospital when I arrived home. If I had to get Tom on the phone with them, I would pry out some information on Jack’s condition.

I figured out how to turn on the wipers and got going again, slowly. Eventually I reached the main road back to Aspen Meadow. When my cell phone rang, it startled me. I pulled over again, and prayed that this was not bad news about Jack.

“Miss G.” Tom’s voice was as comforting as dark chocolate.

“Where are you?” I hadn’t checked the caller ID.

“Home. You out on the main road yet?”

“Yes, Julian gave me his—”

“I know,” Tom interrupted me. “I called the spa’s land line.”

Terror rose in my throat. “What’s going on?”

“First of all,” said Tom, “I heard about Jack going out for a smoke and being attacked and robbed. And a little while ago, Lucas Carmichael called here,” Tom went on, with amusement in his voice. “It seems your Uncle Jack woke up in Southwest Hospital and had a request.”

“Request?”

“Actually, Lucas said Jack stopped breathing in the ambo, and the paramedic had to give him a trake. At the hospital, the first thing Mr. Impatient Attorney wanted was a pad of paper.” I laughed with relief. This was so typical. “Wait,” said Tom, “there’s more. It sounded as if what really upset Lucas was the fact that Jack wrote your name down as soon as he got the pad. Apparently, the person he wants to see is you, his goddaughter. Not Lucas, his son.”

“I’m going down to Southwest Hospital.”

“Yeah, I thought you’d say that. I tried to tell Lucas that would be what you wanted to do, and would he allow you to see Jack. He said he would.” Tom paused. “Will you call me when you leave there?”

“Sure. And, Tom? I have to tell you something.”

“Uh-oh, sounds like confession time.”

“Well, first of all, I sort of got into a physical fight with Billie the Bride at the reception.”

“Super. Did you get your final check before this altercation?”

“’Fraid not. I was trying to get to Craig Miller, so he could come help Jack. Billie wouldn’t let me through. She ended up slapping me.”

“Oh, for God’s sake. You were trying to get to a doctor. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. But the second thing is, this wasn’t a robbery.”

Tom’s voice was immediately sharp. “What makes you say that?”

“I, uh, picked up Jack’s Rolex from the grass.”

“Goldy, I swear, you never learn.”

“I didn’t touch it with my hands!”

“Better and better. You had an evidence bag with you, and you gave the cops on the scene the watch, inside the bag.”

“Well, no.”

“Where is it now?” Tom asked.

“Inside my apron pocket. Sorry, Tom.”

“Yeah, yeah. Okay, I want that watch. Do not touch it.”

“I never did!”

“Uh-huh.”

We signed off, and I headed through the dark, rainy night to Southwest Hospital. Why would you rob someone, and then not take his expensive watch and his wallet? Was the robber interrupted? Or was he up to something else?

Once I’d parked in the hospital lot, I pulled off my apron, folded it, and stowed it on the floor of Julian’s Rover. The rain was still falling, so I hunted around for a slicker of some kind, and found a folded plastic poncho in Julian’s glove compartment. I opened it, pulled it over my head, and trotted into Southwest Hospital.

After assuring the receptionist that I was not here about my swollen cheek, I was directed to the fourth floor, and Jack’s room.

I knocked on the door, which was pulled open by Lucas. He looked incongruous in his fancy suit that had become muddy and creased. Since I was ensconced in the brown poncho, a look of incomprehension wrinkled his thin face.

“It’s me, Goldy,” I said.

Lucas’s face dissolved into irritation, which I tried to ignore. “He’s conscious, but I just don’t have the feeling that he knows what’s going on. He choked on his own vomit in the ambulance; that’s why they had to give him the tracheotomy. Then he was moaning and groaning, as if he was in pain, so they’ve given him morphine in his IV, for the head injury.”

“Stitches?”

“Not yet. Not until he’s stabilized. They butterflied it.”

“I’m so sorry, Lucas.”

“Yeah,” he said bitterly. “I’ll bet you are.”

As usual, I couldn’t read Lucas’s vinegary tone, and didn’t want to waste time trying to.

“You might as well come in, then,” Lucas said.

I’d had more enthusiastic invitations in my day, but again, I didn’t care. I was so eager to make sure Jack was his old hale and hearty self that I plunged into the room, then recoiled when I saw how gray and helpless he looked. His eyes appeared rheumy, but when he saw me, he motioned me forward.

“Don’t upset him,” Lucas warned me, as if I would.

“Jack,” I said gently. “I’m so glad to see you.”

Jack reached out the hand with the IV in it and clasped one of mine.

“I don’t suppose you’ve washed your hands anytime recently,” Lucas’s voice intoned from behind me.

I turned. In a low voice, I said, “Lucas? Shut. Up.”

“All right, listen,” Lucas said, as if I hadn’t spoken. “Here’s what happened. We got him here, and he woke up, and because of the trake, he couldn’t talk. But he was acting all impatient in that way he does. So I gave him the pad of paper and a pen. He wrote, ‘Gold.’ And I said, ‘Goldy?’ And he shook his head no, but then he nodded yes. I’m telling you, it’s the morphine.”

Behind me, Jack’s ring banging on the bar of the hospital bed brought me back to his side. He had a yellow legal pad—where had the hospital found one?—and on the same piece of paper that he’d written “Gold,” he now penned, “Feel bad, Lucas. Need time with G.”

Lucas, who after months had finally shown me a teensy bit of politeness and restraint, raced out of the room in a huff.

“You know, Jack,” I said, attempting humor, “you might want to try to be nice to Lucas so that he and I could get along and share you—”

Jack grunted and tapped the legal pad. I said, “Do you want something?”

He groaned and made a scribbling motion with his hand. Where had the pen gone? Eventually I found a pencil in a table drawer. He took it and tried to get purchase on the pad of paper, then looked at it in puzzlement. He growled in frustration.

“Do you want me to write something down for you?” I asked. “Do you want to tell me who hurt you?”

Jack frowned and shook his head. His gray face and the wrinkled skin of his chest visible above the hospital gown made me feel sick to my stomach. Hadn’t Jack just told Lucas he felt bad and needed to be with me? What did he need me for? What was he trying to say? Unable to decipher his grunts and movements, I felt as frustrated as he clearly was.

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